Tears

by Francine Pascal

  “What?” Brian squawked. “Well, if you thought you did, you did.”

  “No,” Ed insisted. The pain returned a hundredfold. His entire body weakened. His arms began to shake from holding up all his body weight. So Ed let himself collapse to the ground. He didn’t know what else to do. He was barely conscious of tumbling to the floor. Brian flipped off the music and helped Ed back to his feet, helping him get a grip on the parallel bars.

  “Well, let’s keep moving, dude,” Brian shouted. “We’ll get there, bro—”

  “No,” Ed interrupted. “I’m tired, Brian. I think I’ve got to stop for today.”

  There was a long silence. Brian stared at him. Ed could feel Brian’s disappointment; the guy wasn’t one to conceal his emotions. It made Ed sick with humiliation. This was the first sign of negativity Ed had ever shown, and Brian knew it was nothing like him. Of all the goddamn irony in the world. . . the greatest thing yet had just happened—and he felt worse than he’d ever felt. All thanks to Heather.

  “Okay,” Brian said simply. He didn’t scream. He almost sounded like a normal human being, which was somehow deeply upsetting. “Hey. We all get tired, Eddie. Maybe you’ll feel better tomorrow.”

  “Maybe,” Ed mumbled, unable to look him in the eye.

  Brian grabbed his coat and headed for the door. He wasn’t one for long good-byes, but this one was particularly short.

  “Later,” Brian said. His footsteps faded down the hall.

  Ed gripped the parallel bars, shaking with frustration, staring at his wheelchair in the hall. His feelings for Heather usually ran so deep.

  But not at this moment.

  No, right now Ed was just seething with anger, and all he could think about was one thing: Heather doesn’t want me to walk. Heather would rather have my money than have me walk. He clenched his fists together for fear he might hit something. Lash out and break a bone or a piece of furniture. He clenched his fists together—

  And then suddenly Ed realized the significance of this action.

  As he felt his nails digging into his palms, he realized his hands. . . were at his sides.

  He was no longer gripping the bars. Yet he was still standing.

  He looked down at his feet.

  At that moment Ed Fargo hit the floor again.

  HEATHER

  It’s funny how nothing ever stays the same. Nothing. For the longest time it seemed like I was untouchable. After everything I went through when Ed had his accident, after all that sorrow and guilt and heartache, I made a pact with myself: that I’d never sink to that level of sadness again. That no matter what, I’d always stay on top.

  And I did. Even through all that stuff with Sam. Even when Gaia Moore blew into my life and my relationship with Sam fell apart, I still kept it together on the outside. Think of a swan gliding across a pond. There’s all that furious web-footed churning under the surface, but all you see is the bird gliding by, unruffled. On top of it all. On the surface, at least.

  That was me.

  On top of things, placidly gliding across the surface without messing up a feather. Up where I belonged. Or at least where everyone else seemed to think I belonged.

  But now I feel like I’m cracking. Ed’s keeping me at arm’s length; Phoebe isn’t getting any better; my parents are penniless. And I’m finding it hard to stay afloat. Watching my parents and Phoebe, I’m beginning to think that life has no patterns. It’s just a series of arbitrary circumstances, some good, some bad. All of it meaningless and random.

  I’ve also decided that what doesn’t kill you doesn’t necessarily make you stronger, either. Every knock adds up. Sooner or later, you sink.

  Worst of all, I can’t talk to anyone about this stuff. It’s not like my friends would even begin to understand or empathize. And I can’t talk to my parents. They’re in even worse shape.

  Once upon a time Ed was that person, the one person I could tell anything to, no matter how harsh. But he’s too busy shutting me out to care. And besides, he’s too full of optimism right now to even begin to relate—too filled with his recovery to see how my life is breaking up into chunks and sinking.

  I am totally alone. It’s like that book The Stranger. Maybe Camus is right. Maybe life is just an existential exercise. I still don’t think I quite get what existential means, but it sounds lonely and hideous, and that’s exactly how life is.

  For the first time ever, I feel I’m getting dangerously close to numb.

  Here’s another thing that makes no sense: How can a person feel so desperately unhappy, yet-feel numb at the exact same time? Numbness is like the opposite of sadness. Or is it? Nothing makes sense.

  The only thing I know is that I don’t give a shit anymore about the things that used to matter to me. It’s hard work even getting dressed in the morning, never mind color coordinating.

  I don’t even care that Gaia and Sam are rumored to be a couple.

  I have bigger things to worry about than that.

  black letters

  Even with a knife, these two were about as intimidating as a couple of stuffed animals.

  “DAD, THIS PLACE IS A JOKE,” Gaia complained, her eyes darting from side to side as she stood at the entrance of Antique Boutique, the primo FOH shopping stop. She just knew she would run into Megan or Tina or Heather herself. And the last people Gaia felt like seeing were the Kate-Spade-toting, Tommy-reeking, self-designated in crowd who had placed themselves at the top of the Village School’s limited social pyramid.

  Blending In

  It was kind of funny: For the first time since they’d reunited, Gaia actually found she was annoyed with her father. But she supposed that was a good sign. Teenage daughters were supposed to get annoyed with their dads, right?

  “Gaia, you swore you’d let me take you on a shopping spree and buy you some new clothes,” he mumbled. “Besides, what’s wrong with this place?” He lowered his dark glasses and gave the boutique a piercing, blue-eyed once-over. “It looks... fashionable.” The word seemed to catch in his throat.

  Before Gaia could point out that he was clearly as miserable as she was, an overly excited salesman shot up like a jack-in-the-box from under a counter in the bag check.

  “Can I check your coat?” he demanded. Then he turned away and whined something incomprehensible into the headset squeezed tightly to his Roman-page-boy hairdo.

  “It’s like a military operation in here,” Tom joked.

  Gaia rolled her eyes and yanked her father back onto Broadway, into cold air and the late afternoon fading light.

  “Listen, I think I understand why you don’t want to do this,” Tom said in a gently chiding voice. “You don’t feel like conforming. That’s what I love about you; you never feel a need to be anyone but yourself. But there’s a difference between conforming and blending in.”

  “There is?” she muttered. But her tone was only half serious. If her father wanted to play Dad, she figured she might as well indulge him. After all, they were still making up for five years of lost time—years that could never be restored, no matter how hard they tried.

  She allowed him to lead her into the store next door, which was, admittedly, better. It was still trendy, but there were no squeaking salesmen, no obvious brand names worthy of FOH attention. Just shelves full of sweaters and a couple of dresses. Blending in. Gaia repeated the words to herself and snorted as she pictured herself trying to become a part of the scene that the likes of Heather operated in: a bubble of cuteness and best-friends-forever shit.

  “You know, I don’t have to remind you that blending in is how I’ve managed to stay alive,” her father remarked mildly, as if sensing Gaia’s thought processes. “I’m not suggesting you take an alias or wear a fake mustache. I’m just suggesting you buy a nice skirt. Give those two ragged sweatshirts of yours a rest. Here, why don’t you try on this dress?”

  Gaia shot her father an amused smirk as his eyes flashed from the pale green dress on the wall to her gray hooded sweatsh
irt. He shrugged, as if to say: See?

  “Trust me, Dad, I would not blend in if I showed up at school in this dress.” She adopted a mock-serious tone. “I’d upset the delicate balance of the fragile adolescent society in which I live.”

  Her father laughed.

  “Not to mention the fact that I’d look like a two-ton heifer trying to squeeze into an ice-skater’s outfit,” she added quietly.

  “Gaia, please,” he argued, smiling. “You’re seventeen. You’re beautiful. Try on the dress. You wouldn’t be upsetting any delicate balance. Lots of kids your age wear that dress, I’m sure. And you know the old cliché: Quando a Roma...”

  Gaia groaned as she pushed aside the curtain of a changing-room cubicle. When in Rome... Funny. If only her father had the slightest clue what he was talking about. Now that she thought about it, this normal stuff had the potential to get on her nerves—what with shopping with Dad and lectures on self-esteem. Scowling, she lost her sweatshirt and pants, then shimmied into the green dress.

  When she looked at herself in the mirror, she thanked God that she was born with no fear gene. Otherwise her reflection would have terrified her. For starters, the dress was way too short for her way-too-long legs. It was also too tight across what she saw as her overdeveloped shoulders and muscle-bound stomach. No doubt about it: Even in this ridiculous getup, she was still several Grand Canyon—sized leaps away from feminine. Forget about looking like an ice-s kater. She had a better shot at being mistaken for a female boxer.

  Oh, well. Sighing, Gaia took one last, punishing look at herself and wondered why she’d even bothered attempting to be a regular girl. This dress was made for a baby-doll teen, the kind of girl who screamed for boy bands. Couldn’t her father see that—

  “Are you sure this shit isn’t alarmed?” a voice whispered in the cubicle next to hers.

  Gaia stiffened at the sound. Then suddenly she felt very depressed. That was just another one of her abnormal qualities—an animal-like sense of hearing.

  “Who cares? Let’s get out of here,” a second voice retorted.

  Without a moment’s hesitation Gaia stepped out of her cubicle—just in time to see two girls pull back the curtain of their own. One was small and sallow with bad skin and a frightened, guilty look on her face. Her backpack was bursting at the seams. It probably weighed as much as she did. The other was a big, broad goth-metal girl—more beef than fat, with a pierced lip, a pierced eyebrow, and sullen eyes.

  Gaia planted herself in front of them.

  The goth chick flashed her a don’t-mess-with-me look.

  “I don’t think you want to leave without hanging up the stuff you just tried on,” Gaia said pleasantly, her eyes falling on the bulging backpack of the smaller girl.

  “And I don’t think you want to butt into anyone’s business,” the bigger girl shot back, her mouth twisting into an ugly half smile, half grimace.

  “Oh, but you’re wrong.” Gaia blocked the exit with a long arm as she leaned against the wall. “Butting in is what I like to do.”

  “Well, then how come your butt is hanging out of that heinous dress?” the small girl demanded. And then, to Gaia’s utter shock, she reached into her bag and pulled out a switchblade—which she promptly flicked open and wielded in Gaia’s face. “Now get the hell out of my way, bitch.”

  Normally Gaia would have laughed. Even with a knife, these two were about as intimidating as a couple of stuffed animals. But she was extremely pissed. She wasn’t sure which was more infuriating, being called a bitch by the side-kick of a Marilyn Manson wanna-be or the comment about the dress. No, actually, she was sure. The dress. Definitely the comment about the dress. Gaia cursed herself for having even tried it on. She had to get out of it. Now. But first, of course, she’d have to deal with these very unfortunate half-wits.

  The smaller girl lunged forward, blade out. Gaia simply stepped out of her way; she didn’t even have to make much effort to dodge the strike. The girl had telegraphed it before she’d even moved. With her left hand Gaia feinted a punch. With her right she jabbed a quick punch into the girl’s midsection. The girl gasped, doubling over. The goth’s jaw dropped as the knife slipped from the smaller one’s fingers. Gaia calmly picked up the knife and raised her eyebrows.

  “Now, I know you don’t want me to break every bone in your body,” she stated. “That’ll make shoplifting so much more difficult.”

  The smaller girl collapsed onto the floor, clutching her stomach. The goth girl took a step back. Gaia smiled. Suddenly an anxious store clerk appeared, followed by her father and a security guard. Her father surveyed the scene, then grinned. Gaia shrugged. She noticed a security camera above his head. The store employees must have seen the whole fight. Gaia glanced back at the girls. They must have seen the camera, too. And they had still attacked her with a knife. Geniuses, they were not.

  “Are you all right?” her father asked. He sounded almost amused. He knew a shoplifter with a switchblade was no great threat to his daughter—which, of course, was just another perfect example of how she could never possibly “blend in.”

  “See what happens when I put on a dress?” she asked.

  Tom chuckled. “Well, I think you look beautiful.”

  “Sure, you do.” She patted his shoulder, feeling mildly sick. “I’ll go get my sweatshirt.”

  PLEASE, GAIA, DON’T MAKE ONE OF your territorial walks around Washington Square, Sam prayed as he stood under a scraggly tree in the park. Not now.

  Kodak Moments

  Sam felt a chill underneath his coat. He looked around warily, gripping the package that Josh had ordered him to pick up from outside a garment factory in Hell’s Kitchen. So this was what it had come down to: Josh gives Sam one alibi; Josh gets a permanent messenger boy in return. This was the third “errand” Sam had agreed to run for Josh. He’d just about had it. He could feel his sanity slipping away—not only because of the humiliation, but because of the damage it was doing to his relationship with Gaia.

  The cold air stung his face. He knew that a relationship with the opposite sex was all about building trust. He knew it all too well. After all, lack of trust was one of the contributing factors that had destroyed his relationship with Heather. And here he was telling Gaia these stupid white lies so he could run his errands, praying he wouldn’t run into her? It was infuriating. Not to mention pathetic.

  There was no way he was going to do another one of these deliveries. He’d more than paid Josh back already. He’d simply made the wrong friend in a very messed up set of circumstances, and now he’d paid the price. Hopefully this would be the last of the deliver-ies—and then they’d be even, no questions asked, and Sam could say good-bye to Josh permanently.

  Hopefully.

  Sam glanced around the park. Nobody was showing to pick up the package. In fact, he barely saw anyone at all. Just a few bits of garbage blowing in circles, as if stirring up a fuss to demand that somebody clean them up. He couldn’t remember the last time the park had been this still at 6:00 P.M. The chess tables stood vacant. The benches glistened and dripped with melting ice. The fountain was silent and ghostly, lit up by a wrought-iron lamp nearby. Silhouettes of trees looked like scarecrows in the dimness of early evening.

  He swallowed.

  Where was his contact? Out of his peripheral vision he spotted movement. But it was only a group of young girls, straggling across one of the paths. The clatter of their boots echoed and died, and again the park was deathly silent. Sam jiggled from one foot to the other. A palpable fear was coagulating in his veins.

  And then suddenly he materialized.

  A dark shape appeared in the shadows, walking straight toward Sam.

  Make that a she.

  Sam’s eyes widened. The massive, hulking figure was a woman. . . technically speaking. The curves were all in place and undeniable, but this person could easily crush Sam into the ground with one overhand punch. Some battle of chromosomes had been lost—or the outcome purposefully
fixed. He couldn’t help but shrink away a little as she stopped in front of him. Her face was concealed by a scarf.

  “Got something for me?” she whispered, her hands jammed into the pockets of a black ski jacket. Her voice was deep, raspy.

  Sam’s heart pounded. Where did Josh find these people? Not that it mattered. There was no point in prolonging this encounter any longer than necessary. Getting out of the park as fast as was humanly possible seemed the smartest option. He handed over the package and turned to go.

  “Slow down, homey.” The woman stopped Sam with a rough hand on his shoulder, then pulled him back and thrust an eight-by-eleven manila envelope into his hands. “It’s a drop-off and a pickup.”

  Sam stumbled backward. His fear mounted. He didn’t know exactly what kind of trouble this was, but he could smell that something was off. He should go. Now. But then she took a sudden step toward him—and he dropped the package, his fists clenched at his sides, ready to defend himself. The park was still as empty and eerie as it had been when he arrived. If something happened to him, no one would see it. A metallic taste of fear coated the roof of his mouth. The woman’s eyes were only inches from Sam’s face now—as lifeless as the park itself. Instantly Sam’s mind was on alert. He sorted options for defense and attack.

  But then she laughed and stepped back. “Just wanted to read what was on your hat,” she said. Reflexively Sam’s hand went to the NYU knitted cap pulled low over his forehead. “Keep your grades up,” she whispered, then turned and disappeared into the park without another word.

  Relief exploded from Sam’s rib cage in a shaky series of gasps. He took a moment to collect himself, shaking his head and staring into the darkness. He swore under his breath several times. He couldn’t take this anymore.

  Finally, when his pulse and breathing had reached seminormal states, he bent down and picked up the envelope.